


A Little Recognition

by crabbynsfw



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Drinking, One Night Stands, Other, Reader-Insert, Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 08:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10658892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabbynsfw/pseuds/crabbynsfw
Summary: 2D made a lot of mistakes as a young star. He’s not so young anymore, and recently only barely star, but he thinks he has a few more mistakes left in him.





	A Little Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: unsafe sex (no condom), tipsy sex?

2D wants to go out, have some drinks, and have people recognize his face.

It feels a little bit weird for him. Back in Gorillaz’s prime, he avoided going out or wore hats to hide his hair so that he wouldn’t be publicly harassed. Initially the fame was fun, but after a while, having someone tear at his clothes or try to pluck out strands of his hair every time he went to the shops wore him down. But now, after years of increasing obscurity, dead end jobs, and living inside a whale, it feels sort of nice to be famous again. It’s probably part of why he agreed to make the new album when Murdoc tracked him down.

He likes attention when it doesn’t involve people invading his space.

So he gets dressed up – as nice as he ever dresses, anyway – and leaves the house he shares with the rest of the band and catches a cab to the nearest, greasiest pub.

Initially, he doesn’t have much luck. The bartender recognizes him as he pours 2D a drink, but seems generally lukewarm about having a celebrity in the bar. “Oh, hey, you’re that guy… from that, like, indie post-punk band?”

2D wrinkles his nose at the bartender’s description. “Indie”…?

Nobody else seems to recognize him. A few patrons shoot him furtive glances, but lose interest quickly, so they were probably just staring at his unusual hair. Maybe he should’ve waited longer after dropping a few of their songs, waited for more hype, more interviews. There’d been a lot of buzz on the band’s official social media, but that didn’t necessarily mean that everyone at the local bar was a fan.

Finally, at last, he catches someone in a dingy corner booth gawking at him. They’re wearing a Gorillaz shirt that’s seen better days and must be at least a decade old.

He smiles, feeling dimly giddy. He lights up a cig quickly and thanks god this place isn’t non-smoking, because his nerves are shot and he needs it. He stands up, grabs his drink, stalks over to the corner.

He’s anxious, feeling twitchy, and it dims the giddiness even more as he approaches. He spent a long time selling fucking friendship bracelets, living on the fringes of society, and he knows he’s sounded slightly unhinged in the few interviews he’s had since the comeback was announced. He hopes his fan is excited enough to meet him that they overlook it.

* * *

You glance around the bar anxiously as one of your biggest celebrity crushes from your teen years makes his way over to you. As he sits down in the opposite side of _your booth_.

It feels like your throat is closing up as he gives you a slow, casual smile and sets his drink down on the table. He plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, pinching it between his finger and thumb, to speak.

“I like y’shirt,” he says, quiet, giving you a little nod. The cig goes back in his mouth, practically hanging out of it.

You self-consciously wrap your jacket around you tighter so it hides the awful shirt you’re wearing. It’s stained, it’s too small for you, and you probably bought it at Hot Topic while you were in high school. You hadn’t felt like dressing up.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice equally quiet. It’s a wonder how you can hear each other over the chatter and music. You don’t really know what else to say to him. Ask him about the album? Gush about how big of a fan you are? Those seem like terrible ideas, and he’s probably had enough people bothering him with stuff like that. You could ask, “Are you 2D?” as a way of starting a conversation, but you _know_ he’s 2D, there’s no mistaking who he is, and _he’s on your fucking shirt_. So you just stare at him, wide-eyed.

He fidgets, seeming almost as lost as you. “D’you, erm, d’you come ‘ere often?”

He cringes. You furrow your brow.

“No,” you say, flatly, wondering why he’s using a fucking pickup line.

You take a moment to examine him as he continues to fidget. He’s certainly older. He’s turning 40 soon, if you’re remembering correctly, and it shows. Not that you hold it against him, considering the wild rumors of what he’s been up to during the hiatus. If even one of those rumors are true, of course he looks like hell. His hair’s a little thinner than it used to be – thinner, but not balding – and there are deep lines on his face, especially around his forehead and eyes where he’d had creases even while in his 20s. The dim lighting isn’t doing him any favors, either.

Still, it’s obvious he’s the pretty boy you fawned over a decade ago. He’s wiry, with long fingers, his bright blue hair standing out against his pale skin. He’s wearing a white crop top, leather jacket, jeans, black boots. Hot as hell. If he was a little younger, there would be no doubt in your mind that he was here to find a hookup for the night.

“Wha – d’you – um, wha –” he tries to speak, stammers instead, and clears his throat. “What, um, what’d you fink of th’ new songs?”

You’re suspicious. There’s no reason why he should care about what some random fan thinks of his work, of his band in general, but you can’t help yourself. You’re rattling off praise as soon as you open your mouth, saying how wonderful the range of moods is when they’ve only released a handful of songs, talking about your favorite part of his vocals.

When you finally shut up, he’s grinning at you. You can see his tongue poking out a little where the gap in his teeth is. The cig is back in his hand, between two fingers, and he’s leaning forward. His eyes, or lack of eyes, or whatever, are squinting a little from the force of his grin.

“I liked tha’ part too,” he says, his voice pitching up a little, sounding pleased. “Murdoc di’nt like it, right? He wanted t’take it out, but I fought t’keep it in.”

Excited, you rattle off a dozen questions, and he spends the next few hours answering them all.

* * *

2D feels warm.

You’re sweet and haven’t tried to invade his space even once, haven’t even asked any questions that would be too personal. Most of all, it’s like getting famous for the first time all over again. When the band was just starting to gain notoriety, it was a lot like this. One on one chance meetings with fans, dedicated ones, who knew every song and cared about the music and didn’t just care about him because he was a big name. He feels nostalgic, like he’s young again.

It helps that you’re looking at him like he’s still pretty. He’s not so dense that he hasn’t noticed your gaze inadvertently lingers on his mouth, his hands, his collarbone. He knows what it looks like when someone’s interested in him, sexually, even if they aren’t actually making a move. He spent enough time dicking around as a young rock star to know.

He feels cocky, buzzed, brave. And horny. You’re pretty and easy to talk to.

You remind him of Paula, a little, especially when you tell a joke and it sails right over his head but he laughs anyway because talking to you makes him feel lightheaded like he’s on laughing gas. He tries not to think about it.

So when you’ve both finished off several drinks, he asks, too bluntly because he doesn’t know how else to say it, “D’you wanna spend th’ night wif me?”

* * *

You splutter at the question but you don’t even think before you answer, “Yes, of course!”

You don’t think about the logistics of it until your tab is paid and you’re standing outside the bar with his arm slung over your shoulder. He’s squinting at your phone, brow furrowed, watching as you set up an Uber ride as though he’s never seen it done before. You’re sweating bullets.

You said yes because you were a little tipsy and undeniably still attracted to him after all this time. But you’re afraid that by the time you get to a bed, or a couch, or wherever, you’re going to be sobering up and starstruck and paralyzed.

You get to the destination field on the app and pause. “Where’re we going?” you ask, hesitantly.

He looks up at the sky, thinking and scratching at the light stubble on his chin. You’d thought it’d be harder to tell where he’s looking since he’s got black voids instead of eyes, but it’s really not. He swivels his whole head when he wants to look at something, an exaggerated movement, like he’s constantly startled.

“Prob’ly your place, love,” he says, and you don’t know when he started using pet names. “If tha’s okay.”

You nod and set up the ride.

The trip to your apartment is quiet. The driver isn’t the talkative type, and 2D suddenly seems more interested in feeling up your thigh than chatting. You haven’t even kissed him yet. You don’t do hookups often. Is this how they normally go?

2D apologizes as you unlock your front door.

“M’sorry,” he says, sheepishly. His fingers twitch and he pulls his pack of cigs out of his pocket, but thinks better of it and puts them away again as he steps into your home. “S’been a while. Sorry if I’m bein’… strange.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure him. “Me, too.”

There’s a tense, awkward moment where neither of you make a move. Then he steps forward and kisses you.

His hand is on your neck, his fingers curled around your nape, his thumb on your cheek. He goes in open-mouthed and clumsy, and his teeth clink against yours for a second. He makes a startled noise and tilts his head the other way, locking his lips with yours.

He hums into your mouth when you press back, flicking his tongue against your bottom lip. His hand is on your hip, sliding it’s way up under your shirt. He chuckles a little as he pulls back, looking down at his own face plastered over your chest.

“First time you’ve done this with someone wearing a picture of you?” you ask, smiling.

He pulls the shirt up and you raise your arms obediently. You catch him shaking his head as the material passes over your face. “Nah. It never stops bein’ novel, though.” He snorts, still amused, and your heart flutters.

He takes a moment to admire your chest and the curve of your bare shoulders before he kisses you again.

“Bed?” he mumbles against your lips.

You grab one of his belt loops and stumble backwards towards your bedroom. Your other hand skims over his flat stomach, up to the slight prominence of ribs sticking out from under his crop top. The two of you crash into the door briefly, too preoccupied with flicking your tongue where his missing teeth would be, before you stagger to the bed.

He pushes you back onto the mattress gently and eagerly starts working on taking your pants off. He fumbles with the button a few times, his bottom lip being bitten to hell by his teeth as he concentrates. He yanks off both your pants and underwear excitedly, trying to kick off his boots at the same time. You can’t help but laugh a little about how eager he is.

He pushes his own pants down low on his hips, then clambers on top of you, a little bit out of breath. He stops for a moment and both of you take a second to just stare. There’s cracks of moonlight peeking through the shitty blinds on your window, lighting the room dimly – neither of you bothered to hit the light switch as you stumbled inside. His hair is a blue halo, strands sticking out all over the place. He didn’t even bother to shrug his jacket off.

He’s smiling a dopey, crooked smile. “You’re really awfully pretty,” he breathes.

“You, too,” you mumble, a little shyly, as you dart your eyes away. He’s been staring at you for a while.

He snorts. “I’ve seen better days, love.”

You shake your head. On an objective level, he certainly looks older and perhaps less healthy, but you’re not any less attracted to him.

He hums, like he wants to disagree but can’t figure out how to argue. Instead, he just lowers himself onto you and tucks his face into the crook of your neck. You can feel the material of his shirt against your chest. One of his arms is above your head, holding him up from putting his whole weight on you, and his other hand is running up and down your side, over and over.

“You smell good,” he mutters. His lips press against the side of your neck. Your cunt feels infuriatingly warm and empty.

You start tugging at his jacket urgently, and he laughs, sitting back up only long enough to discard his jacket and shirt. He presses his body against yours again, his bare chest flush against yours. He ruts up against your cunt, his cock hard but still tucked away in his briefs. He flicks his tongue against your pulse and you roll your hips against him and he groans.

He grinds against you again and your turn your head enough to bury your nose in his hair. He smells of smoke and cheap floral shampoo. You wrap your arms around him, your hands pressed flat against his back. His skin is soft and you can feel his shoulder blades move slightly when curves his back to grind his cock against your cunt, the front of his briefs now soaked.

“Please,” you whimper.

“I-I-I… I ‘aven’t got a condom on me.”

“I don’t care if you don’t care.” There’s one in your room, somewhere, you’re sure, but you don’t want to break the moment to go searching for it. You’ll worry about the consequences later.

He raises his brows sharply, but he seems perfectly happy not to argue about it. He adjusts his position to lift off you a little, and his hand leaves your side, fumbling between your bodies until he manages to maneuver his cock out of the front flap of his briefs. He lets out a sigh of relief, then hisses as he presses the tip of his dick against your entrance.

“Christ, love, you’re fuckin’ _burning hot_.” His mouth is open and his brow is furrowed. “Tight, too,” he adds.

You’re sucking in breaths with a sense of urgency as he slowly presses inside of you. You spread your legs wider to help make it easier, but it doesn’t hurt, and you suspect he’s going slowly in an effort to make it comfortable for you. You’d rather he shove it in and start fucking you, but you don’t want to rush him.

As soon as you feel the fabric of his underwear against your pussy lips, he moves his hand back to you, sliding it under your body to press flat against your lower back. His chest is back against yours, and this time he does rest his full weight on you. He’s not that heavy, and in a way it feels comforting to be so surrounded by him. He’s pressing sloppy, unfocused kisses to your neck, breathless. He doesn’t want to seem to pull away from your body for even a moment, like he’s been craving another person’s warmth for ages.

He doesn’t move until you buck against him and wrap your legs around his waist. He lets out a soft “ah,” and rolls his hips, barely pulling out of you before pressing back inside, the tip of his cock pressing deep inside of you. He rolls his hips again, establishing a slow pace.

With how shallowly he’s thrusting, it’s almost as though he’s humping you, but that word doesn’t feel quite right. You can feel his whole body moving against yours, his chest brushing against your nipples as he thrusts. He moans and gasps quietly, right next to your ear, sweet little noises that are somehow both distinctly erotic and adorable. It’s incredibly intimate, and no one has ever fucked you like this before.

You move one of your hands from his back to his hair, and he makes a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan, slamming into you roughly, his hips stuttering as though you surprised him. You thread your fingers through blue locks, scrape your nails against his scalp, and pull lightly.

His thrusts are erratic, jerky, as he turns his head to press his nose against your neck. He makes desperate noises, and his voice is _so_ cute. You tug again, your cunt clenching around his cock, and he starts stammering – “Ooooh, there, there, there, I-I-I-I, I can’t, m’gonna, yes, yesyesyes…”

He breaks off with a choked gasp, slamming inside of you. You feel something filling you up, spilling out of you, and he takes a few more strained breaths before he rears back suddenly. His hand pulls out from under you and his thumb is on your clit, rolling against it, as you groan and arch your back, trying to get him to press harder. He’s still inside you, his cock twitching, and he seems totally overstimulated as your cunt clenches frantically, his brow creasing and his whole body twitching with aftershocks, his shoulders jerking upwards, as he gasps like a dying man. He’s got hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and he’s watching your face intently, losing focus briefly every time you pulse on his dick and wrack his body with another jolt of pleasure.

You cum hard, your thighs twitching with the force of it, and you have to grit your teeth and screw your eyes shut as he rubs your clit, stimulating you through it, and you’re only barely conscious enough to hear his low groan.

He pulls out of you, finally, brushing his thumb over your swollen clit a few more times just to watch your body jolt and hear you whimper before he collapses on top of you. To his credit, he tries to aim his body to one side, so that he’s not crushing you completely. One of his arms is slung over your chest, his nose back at your neck, breathing deeply.

“Tha’ was really, really, really, really,” he says, pauses to heave a huge sigh, “really bloody good.”

“Yeah,” you say, just as breathless, and you’re not sure if you manage to laugh before you pass out.


End file.
